The Things We Never Said
by SaturnEight
Summary: What grief could look like if one of the Jump Street officers died in the line of duty. The focus is not on the death itself, but the anguish that comes afterwards.
1. Chapter 1 - The Things We Never Said

**Timeline**: Chapter One and any other "present day" chapters are set sometime in Season Four (or at least, that's the intention).

It had been almost four days. Countless phone messages went unanswered. Judy had even stopped by his apartment a couple of times, but there was no response.

Fuller's concern was mounting, so he finally charged over to Doug's door, intent on staying until he made contact. He needed to confirm that Doug hadn't gone off and…he tried not to let his thoughts wander too far. The possibilities were too disturbing.

The incessant door banging and threats of not leaving until he was allowed in, finally prompted the door to swing open reluctantly. Doug wouldn't look his Captain in the eye, but he silently allowed a visitor into his space for the first time since that night.

All in all, the state of the apartment was actually not as bad as Fuller expected. There were empty food containers, beer cans and liquor bottles strewn about assorted surfaces. Various articles of presumably dirty clothing lay on the floor, and there was a slight musty odor in the air, but in the grand scheme of things it wasn't _horrible_. In fact, now that Fuller thought about it, Doug's apartment had not looked drastically different on other more normal occasions.

The lack of decent lighting was the most noticeable aspect of the room. Only one dim lamp was on in the corner. It was a short table light, but it sat on the floor which muted its effect even more. It cast strange shadows across the messy expanse and Doug's face was half-shrouded in the gray darkness.

"I know you don't want to talk to me, or anyone else right now, so you don't have to." Fuller put all his effort into making his voice sound as soothing and calm as possible. He knew it was a precarious time, and didn't want Penhall to detach himself any more than the younger man had already done. "But there are some things I need to say. And then I'll leave."

Doug still didn't speak, but gave a slight nod as he lowered himself onto the couch. His head was bowed and his elbows rested on his knees as he hunched slightly forward.

The older man cleared his throat and opened his mouth to start, and then quickly rethought his words. He shook his head and started again.

"For what it's worth, I want you to know that I would give everything I have in this world to change what happened," his voice quivered ever so slightly, and then he quickly reigned himself back in. He swallowed hard and continued. "I know it's not fair. And I know you're angry. And I'm angry. And there might not seem like any place to put all of that right now. I understand…"

Doug hadn't even blinked.

"But you can always come talk to me if you need to. I'll answer the phone or my door, night or day. I'll pick you up somewhere if you need a ride. Just let me know. I won't judge. I won't push you for answers if you don't have them."

Still no response, either verbal or non-verbal.

"Ok?"

Doug gave a second faint nod, but couldn't bring himself to look up. He stared down at his hands and wrung them absentmindedly. His left knee faintly bounced up and down out of nervousness.

Fuller silently sucked in a deep breath. There wasn't any other transition that was going to lead into this. He reached into his pocket, hesitated for a second, and had to force himself to continue.

"I never got a chance to give this to you the other day," He said softly. His hand wavered slightly as he held out the envelope, faintly yellowed at one corner, but as smooth and flat as the day it was sealed.

Doug grudgingly lifted his head. He stared at the outstretched hand and its contents. A tide of nausea came out of nowhere.

"What's that?" Doug muttered hoarsely, with almost an air of bitterness.

Fuller didn't speak for a minute. He had silently rehearsed what he was going to say, but now, none of that mattered. He struggled to suppress his emotions.

Before Fuller spoke again, Doug cautiously took the paper and held it suspiciously away from his body. He squinted, not because it was difficult to see, but because his brain needed a moment to register everything before he allowed it to hit him. He suddenly felt the floor drop out from underneath him as the realization shot up his spine. He knew what it was now. His eyes brimmed with tears. He thought he didn't have anything left. He thought the numbness was so pervasive that he was immune. But he was wrong. He quickly wiped his face with the back of his sleeve and sucked in several shallow breaths.

"A letter. He gave it to me in case…" Fuller's voice splintered. "I…I had hoped I'd never have to give it to you."

Doug's futile attempt to stifle the tears did not work. His eyes overflowed as his fingers involuntarily traced the letters on the envelope. "Doug" was scrawled in familiar handwriting in the middle of the rectangle, and in smaller letters in the bottom right corner, "-Tommy McQ."

The young man's grief abruptly snapped into anger. He wanted to violently tear the paper into a thousand pieces, set it on fire, set the world on fire, make it so that everything wasn't true. He was still in disbelief that his friend was gone and he vacillated between blinding rage and paralyzing sorrow.

Doug's arms fell limply to his sides and he paced towards the wall, suddenly unable to breathe. His chest constricted as panic gathered in his lungs.

Without looking his captain in the eye, he thrust the paper back towards the older man with a trembling hand. "I can't…" Doug choked, "I can't…"

Fuller crossed the room and softly placed his hand on Doug's shoulder. "It's ok. You don't have to read it now. Keep it, wait. Take your time."

The two men fell into silence again. Neither of them knew what do next.

Fuller desperately wanted to comfort the young man in some way, but he knew there was nothing more within in his power that could offer any relief. Unfortunately, the anguish was going to last. And after some time and hopefully healing, things would get better. In a way. A wishful thought.

Fuller squeezed Doug's shoulder one more time and then went back to the couch to retrieve his coat. He slowly placed it over his arm and turned to leave when Doug's faint voice cracked, "Cap'n?"

Fuller turned.

"When did he give this to you?"

Fuller thought for a moment. "About a year ago."

Doug's still shaking hand put the paper down on the nearby coffee table. He didn't trust himself to hold it at the moment. He steadied his voice and his fury retreated once again. In its place was just the familiar hollow ache. Although the memories of his mother's death were vague and obscured by two decades of hindsight, he remembered the feeling that always came after the anger. The anger gave purpose and heat and action. It was uncomfortable and yet it somehow felt productive, even though it was just the opposite. But once that subsided, the emptiness that followed was so much more unbearable.

"What did he say? Was there a reason? What happened…" he was reaching, reaching for anything else to hold onto.

"I don't know if there was just one reason. Probably many..."


	2. Chapter 2 - Weight of the World

Fuller hadn't actually thought back to that night in a long time. Even when he retrieved the letter from the file cabinet where he'd kept it, his mind has been so focused on Doug and what he was going to say to him, that he'd completely forgotten…

_[FLASHBACK]_

Tom had strolled into his office that sweltering summer evening, his hands jammed into his pockets and sweat lingering on his forehead and in his hair that he'd been letting hang into his face around that time. The already weak air conditioning in the chapel had been out of order all day, and almost everyone had filed out early in order to escape the stuffy old building. Fuller remembered wondering if the disheveled hair-in-the-eyes look was a subconscious way that Tom was hiding, retreating from things. The young man had changed quite a bit in the couple of years they'd worked together. Some of the change was maturity, growth, knowledge, and some of the change was darker. But could one ever really disentangle those things and know where they truly diverged? Or were they really just the same thing?

"Hey Coach." Tom's voice was low, and Fuller could tell something was bothering him.

"Tom, it's late, and it's Friday. _And_ you already turned in your report on the Hopkins case," Fuller chided gently. "You better get outta here before I call Penhall to come drag you out."

Tom attempted a weak smile, but remained standing nervously near the file cabinet.

"Can I ask you a personal question?" Hanson finally said, as if it had taken a great amount of thought to get to this point, whatever unknown point that was.

Over the years, Fuller had gotten used to Hanson's questions. The young man tended to agonize over problems in ways that others did not. It was both a blessing and a curse.

Fuller set down his pen carefully. "You can ask, but I have no idea if I have the answer you're looking for."

Without making eye contact, Tom anxiously rubbed his chin and furrowed his brow even more. "Do you…have you ever, considered quitting? Quitting police work entirely?"

Fuller leaned back as a thoughtful chuckle escaped his lips. "Of course, who hasn't?"

Tom finally looked up to meet the Captain's gaze.

"I know very few cops who haven't questioned this profession," assured Fuller with a smile, but then he turned a bit more serious. "I know lately…I know you've been…" His words dropped off. They both knew what he meant; he didn't have to say it.

Tom fidgeted. "Yeah." It was really eating him up that night. And it hadn't even been brought on by any specific trigger point. He'd just been sitting at his desk and the overwhelming feeling of panic swept over him. He drew his hand across his mouth in thought and then shook his head in disbelief and glanced up at the ceiling. "I don't know why…I don't know why all of a sudden, right now, this moment, it's hitting me. But I can't breathe." When his soulful eyes met Fuller's gaze again, Fuller was taken aback at the fear and confusion etched across the young man's face. There was even a slight hint that a tear was about to well up, but it never actually did.

"I used to be _so_ sure. Of everything." Tom's jaw clenched. "When my father died, I didn't even take a moment to consider any other path, I just knew that I needed to do this. That sense of purpose was instantaneous and overpowering."

With his hands still in his pockets, Tom crossed to the other side of the room in a nervous pace, still wracking his brain. "But now," his voice lowered to almost a whisper, "I just don't know anymore. I spent years not having to give this all a second thought. I was so preoccupied with that one, singular goal, that I never even considered…"

He sank down onto the couch, leaned forward and buried his head in his hands.

Fuller snapped up straight in his chair. His heart went out to the kid in front of him. Yes, he knew the young Jump Street officers were all capable adults, strong men and women. But then there were times when their youthful inexperience was so painfully raw. Tom was just shy of 24. Sometimes he seemed so much older. And then sometimes he was almost indistinguishable from the teenager he pretended to be.

"Look, Tom," Fuller tried to sound as comforting as possible. "It's okay to question things. It's okay to not be sure. Give it some time. Acknowledging that you're at a crossroads is part of the process."

Tom felt sick to his stomach. He clamped his eyes shut and tried to wait for the feeling to pass. "I guess what's bothering me the most is…I don't know how to just wait and _figure it out_. I thought I knew but, it's not happening. I feel so uncomfortable. I'm stuck. Or something, I don't even know…"

Jesus. Fuller hadn't seen Tom act like this before. He'd seen him in a lot of different situations and through many different emotions, but this seemed different. Fuller stood and took a few paces behind his desk. He purposefully tried to relax his voice even more. "Hey, it's gonna be okay…" Shit, that sounded so canned. "Tom, did…are you sure there wasn't something in particular that brought this on? Did something happen?"

Like so many other things in life, there wasn't a clear answer. Was there something in particular that brought this on? No. Yes. Kind of. Maybe. So many small things had been mounting over time. He couldn't even count them all. "I don't know…" Tom muttered.

The weight of the world. Fuller somehow felt responsible for at least some of Tom's anguish, in an indirect fatherly sort of way. "Being with these troubled kids, day after day…seeing them struggle. Witnessing their bad decisions…and knowing that sometimes it's not their fault. Wanting to help them, but also feeling outraged at them, and the adults around them and The System…I get it. This is the _hard_ stuff. I wish I could tell you that it gets better, easier. But we both know that isn't necessarily accurate."

Tom uncovered his face. The older man's words rang true, yet they didn't offer the comfort that he so desperately desired.

"You can always transfer to another division Tom," Fuller offered, and he laced his voice with as much hope as he could muster. "I know that you would easily be accepted into at least a dozen other programs or departments, if that's what you want. But, I…" He paused to gather his thoughts. "I realize that may not be the answer. But there _are_ options. You have more choices than you realize. I know some people you could talk to, get more information, maybe provide some perspective. But no pressure. Only if you want to."

Tom nodded, letting it all sink in. He rubbed his eyes and the ever-so-slight ease in his tension immediately brought on the surge of exhaustion that up until that moment, he had been able to keep at bay. "Thanks Coach. I'll…think about it."

He stood up, and the sudden change in position made him slightly dizzy. He waited a second until the vertigo subsided and then he took a step forward and stopped. "Oh, I uh…" He reached slowly toward his back pocket and retrieved a sealed envelope.

He stared down at it while he smoothed out the paper. Now that he was about to hand it over to someone else, he wasn't sure…

He didn't even really know why he'd been compelled to write it. He wasn't the kind of guy that wrote things like that, letters, personal things. It wasn't his style. So then, why had he sat at his desk that night and let his fingers pour out thoughts that he'd never imagine uttering out loud? It didn't make sense, and yet it also made perfect sense. He suddenly felt embarrassed. Not because of the contents of the letter, but just the fact that he'd written _a letter_. Was it silly? Childish? Weird? Should he just put it back in his pocket and throw it away later?

No. He'd taken the time to write it, so he might as well just hand it over and never think of it again.

He quickly placed the letter on Fuller's desk and retracted his hand as quickly as possible. "I…" He'd written it so fast and furious, that he'd completely forgotten about how to explain it. "Could you…keep that for me?" He said tentatively, a million thoughts whirling through his mind. "In case…if something ever happened…"

Fuller glanced over at the envelope and saw what was written on it. He understood what it was and it instantly roused fear. What state of mind would generate something like this? But as his gaze moved from the paper over to Tom's distressed face, he knew that he shouldn't ask any more questions. Not at the moment. Whether he consciously knew it or not, Hanson was seeking out acceptance, and what he needed most in that moment was assurance, of anything.

"Of course," Fuller affirmed. He wanted to add something like, _but I'm not going to ever have to give this to him_, or something to imply that the worse-case scenario would never play out. But he knew he couldn't promise that. So, he restrained himself from saying anything more.

Tom didn't look up again. "Thanks," he whispered, and stiffly walked out of the office.

Fuller stood in place and didn't move a muscle until the sound of footsteps disappeared and the humid air had been silent for a while.


	3. Chapter 3 - Strange & Familiar

_**Author's Note: I don't want to give anything away before you read this chapter, but please see my note at the bottom of this page for an added explanation.**_

Tom Hanson's death had been hard on everyone. He was one of those people that was almost universally liked by all those that really got to know him, so it was like the entire Chapel was hit with a wrecking ball. Even Booker had come around. Although he and Tom had gotten off on the wrong foot during their first case together, they'd eventually gotten past it and reached a state of general amiability (and although neither wanted to admit it, also some semblance of mutual respect). It was just too difficult not to like the guy.

And in the wake of it all, everyone knew that Penhall was struggling the most. Hanson was his partner and best friend, so it just made sense. Doug was the one that got all the sympathy, the wide berth, the eggshell walks.

And although Judy Hoffs was never one to wallow in self-pity, she couldn't help but feel personally torn apart. No one knew, and no one would ever know. The raw, gaping wound carved by her friend's sudden and tragic death left its own distinct scars.

_[FLASHBACK]_

Judy Hoffs was fuming. No, that wasn't the right word. Her level of frustration and anger had reached an unknown level. _Seething. Livid._ Those descriptors were closer to reality, but still not quite adequate.

The entire route from downtown headquarters back to the Chapel was a complete blur as she drove in a dazed state of mind, painstakingly recounting every exasperating moment of the day. She had been working on a joint case with several people from downtown and they just couldn't grasp how Jump Street operated and the delicate intricacies of working with teenagers. Sure, people thought they knew. How hard could it be, _right_? They were_ just _kids. Kids are easy to push around. Getting them to talk must be as simple as waving an ice cream cone in the air. It's all just smoking joints in the bathroom and joy rides. How hard could it be, huh? _Seething. Livid._

Judy didn't even try to understand the politics of why Fuller felt he_ had_ to agree to downtown's help on this one. He'd given her a long-winded convoluted explanation, but now, she couldn't remember a single detail of it. It didn't matter. All that mattered was finishing the case as fast as she could so that she might, just might, retain what little sanity she had left.

Her distracted thoughts almost made her run a red light as she slammed on the brakes at the very last second. She smashed her fist into the steering wheel and screamed several expletives at the top of her lungs. She quickly decided that swearing only helped 0.06%, but even that miniscule amount, was worth it.

The only thing she wanted to do now was go straight home and slip into a hot bath. And maybe add a glass or two of wine. Possibly three, but definitely no more than…five. But that morning, when she thought she was meeting her colleagues at the Chapel (yet another point of irritation) and then had to unexpectedly switch gears and head across town, she accidentally left her purse in her locker. And that was another point of contention. She never got flustered like that and forgot important things. This whole situation was throwing her off her game.

Still blinded by anger, Judy didn't notice the presence or lack of certain cars in the parking lot when she pulled up next to the Chapel. She parked haphazardly closest to the door and darted for the stairs. She was just going to grab her things and go.

But as she entered the familiar building in a rare moment of quiet, she was inexplicably taken off guard. The late evening sun outside was just entering its final descent and the last of the light streamed through the old stained-glass windows and boards. The dust particles in the air danced in long ribbons that splashed across the empty room in a beauty that she'd never seen, or maybe just never bothered to notice, before. Judy took a moment to try and calm her nerves by breathing deeply and appreciating the odd old church. It was a special place, with extraordinary people who did remarkable work. How could she let some downtown goons try and taint all that this space represented?

After several peaceful moments of just breathing, she actually felt an ever-so-slight decrease in her anger. It wouldn't take much to get her riled up again that was for sure, but it was a nice little reprieve.

Judy took one last look around the now darkened room and then headed for the stairs.

She was quickly lost in thought once again and as she neared the top of the steps, the sudden sight of a familiar form stopped her in her tracks. It had completely slipped her mind that someone else might still be in the building. There had been absolute silence, and no other indication that she hadn't been alone.

But there he was, hunched on the bench in front of the lockers, unmoving.

She pulled herself out of astonishment and bounded up the last few stairs.

"Hey, I thought I was the only one here!" Her tone was jovial, yet tired. "A long day for both of us. I heard you finally busted those kids over in..." And she immediately stopped mid-sentence.

She could now tell that something was wrong.

He hadn't moved, or acknowledged her presence in any way. And he was...

As she silently slipped down next to him on the bench, she could see he actually shaking. He was leaning forward, elbows on his knees and face covered by his trembling hands. He hadn't looked up or even flinched.

A rush of worried heat flashed through her.

"Hanson?" She whispered as she instinctively rested a gentle hand on his forearm.

He remained silent and motionless.

She tried to keep the panic out of her voice, but she wasn't sure how convincing she was. "Hanson, are you ok?"

This time, he moved his hands just enough so that he uncovered his bloodshot eyes, although they remained fixed on the floor.

Judy tilted her head to the side to try and see if she could read his usually expressive eyes.

She leaned closer and disregarded any further attempts to stay calm. "Please, talk to me…you're scaring me..."

She'd never seen him quite like this. Her hand moved across his back and she tried to draw him closer, but he pulled away with the slightest of movements.

He wanted his legs to move. He had wanted to stand and back away, but his body just wouldn't function. He couldn't tell if it was his physical injuries from the recent altercation with the kids he arrested, or his current psychological state. Whatever the reason, he felt completely helpless at the moment. He had lost all control and it was terrifying him on top of everything else.

Judy kept pleading with him and he lost track of what she was saying. All he could hear was the worry in her voice.

When he was finally able regain the strength to lift his head, he felt a rush of air leave his lungs and heard his voice even though he wasn't actually sure he'd been able to conjure the thought to speak. "Jude..."

His voice startled her, but provided a slight sense of ease. He was able to talk. That was a good sign, right?

She hadn't responded yet when he spoke again, this time louder than the initial whisper, and with an edge of conviction.

"Do you...do you ever look at their faces? At that moment when they realize they're being arrested...I mean, _really _look deep...and you can tell...on some of 'em...that..."

He hesitated and drew in a sharp breath over his bruised midsection.

"What?" was all she could mumble. Tom still had not turned to look at her.

"You can see, in a way, that their life is over. It's the beginning of the end...or just the end…their life is just going to spiral into…it's like I'm there, somehow handing over the noose…even though I'm not the one that slips it over their head or pulls the away the floor, I just...I...I _can't_…"

The air was knocked out of him again and his voice cracked.

He clamped his eyes shut.

"God Hanson," Judy was on the verge of tears. She could feel her friend's despair both figuratively and literally, as he continued to shake. "_Don't_...You can't think like that, you just _can't_. It's not the end at all…" Her words trailed off. She wanted to say so much more, but it wasn't coming out right at all. Just saying the words didn't mean much. They didn't mean anything. It was like screaming at a fire, thinking that it would somehow suppress the flames.

She tried again to put her arm around him but this time he found the clumsy coordination to stand. He shot up abruptly and the combination of light headedness and the pain in his side caused him to half-collapse against the lockers in front of him. The sound of his hand catching himself and holding him up against the metal made him cringe and he let out a breathless, "fuck."

Judy was right there, beside him in an instant. Her arm was now gently but firmly around his waist in an effort to steady him, although it didn't really make a difference at all.

Instead of fighting it any longer, Tom just leaned forward into the locker and let his eyes fall shut. The cool metal against his forehead actually felt ok.

They stayed like that for several moments. Neither one knew what to do next, so they remained frozen. But their fatigued minds were each spinning in separate whirlpools of mixed emotions.

When the moment finally broke, it was Tom that made the first effort to extricate himself from the now awkward positioning. Although his weary brain had been too flustered to make it intentional, instead of turning outward and away from her, he ended up turning towards her. He meant to just move 180 degrees and stride off towards the stairs, but that's not what happened.

As he began to turn, Judy reacted without thinking. She quickly took a step forward and forced him in the opposite direction, his back now flat against the lockers. And then suddenly, their mouths were touching. It took a second for either of them to register that it was a kiss. They were kissing. And neither knew who or what actually started it, but now it was happening.

Although she suspected that she may have initiated whatever this was, and that scared the shit out of her, she also made no effort to move away now. And neither did Tom.

And then after a few more seconds, her hands were in his hair and his hands were on her back. Their lips were still locked, although they'd rearranged themselves and deepened the kiss. It was altogether strange and simultaneously familiar.

_**Author's Note: Although I always really appreciated that the show never forced a stale Hoffs/Hanson romantic relationship (and the Hoffs/Penhall thing, that never really turned into a thing, was just a momentary plot point), I wrote this segment with only friendship in mind. I realize that may not be the way this is interpreted, but my intention is to explain another side of friendship. Whether or not you agree with a Hoffs/Hanson pairing, please try not to be too upset at me. I mean them no harm. Well, you know what I mean…**_


	4. Chapter 4 - Trust

_[FLASHBACK SCENE CONTINUED from Chapter 3]_

They stumbled through the door of Judy's apartment, intoxicated on their incomprehensible feelings of whatever this was. Both of them had temporarily paused all apprehensions and were just riding out this moment, for however long it lasted. They knew far too well about possible complications and consequences. But none of that mattered right now. This moment was alive and burning, and they each needed this in their own separate ways.

As their ungraceful four-legged stagger-walk continued across the living room, shoes and socks were unceremoniously kicked off. Their lips kept meeting and parting as their movements allowed, and although up until the apartment, Judy had been the one to take the lead, Hanson felt a surge of…something. He'd been hesitant to do much of the steering, and although it hadn't consciously entered his mind yet, it was because of Judy's past, the rape. Although this was as far from that horrific event as one could possibly get, he'd still been holding back. But in that instant, standing with her in his arms in a way he'd never before imagined, with the streetlight through the blinds faintly catching the outline of her smooth shoulders, he moved his hands to the sides of her face.

"Are you sure?" he breathed out in a low whisper.

Without even a split second of uncertainty, she nodded as she drew close again. "Yes," escaped her lips right before another kiss began.

That confirmation was all he needed. Now he couldn't help himself. His hands moved swiftly down her back and then up again under her shirt. He undid the clasp of her bra and then their legs were moving again.

They fell sideways onto the bed in the next room, but both remained sitting for a moment. As she reached for the bottom of Tom's t-shirt, he instinctively went to remove it himself. But as he lifted the cotton fabric over his head, Judy let out a quiet gasp. All down his left side, from his rib cage to his waist, was one giant blue and purple mass of bruises. He'd completely forgotten about it. The pain hadn't seemed so bad…he'd been a bit distracted. But Judy couldn't tear her eyes away. She lifted her palm and placed it gently in the center of the injury. Her mouth fell open and she wanted to say something, but nothing came out. She knew they often dealt with physical exchanges while on duty, but seeing this, right now and up close, was alarming and terrifying. She had no idea that Tom's fall at the lockers had anything to do with this, and now it all made more sense.

He quickly glanced down, now that he was reminded of the fight with the kids. The big one had gotten in some decent jabs and kicks before Tom had finally subdued the brawny teenager. It now looked much worse than it currently felt. "It's ok, it's ok," he promised quietly, not knowing what else to say.

But Judy was unable to look away. Did this happen often? As male police officers, were they engaged in this type of thing more of the time than women? Did he bother getting himself checked out at the hospital? How could he even stand upright after this kind of fight?

As her head buzzed with questions, she felt him lift her chin and his dark enthralling eyes forced her to finally look up.

Without breaking their gaze, he calmly placed his hand over hers and slid it away from his damaged side.

"Jude," the tenderness in his soft voice was almost too much. "It's really ok, _trust_ me."

And she did. Entirely.

...

Although they were both far beyond exhaustion, neither one wanted to sleep quite yet. The electricity in the air still lingered. It was an enigmatic mixture of waning thrill and subtle contentment.

Tom lay on his back and Judy was stretched out on her stomach with a pillow bunched up under her arms. They both had their heads turned to the side so they could look at one another, and were now exchanging somewhat awkward, albeit charming, glances in between moments of restrained panic.

"Detective Hoffs, did we just ruin four years of friendship?" Although his voice was playful and he flashed a devastating smile, they both knew it was a serious question.

Unable to think of a response, she just grinned back and joked, "I dunno, did we?"

As more thoughts flooded his confused mind, Tom's smile faded and his eyes widened and weakened. "I hope not. But I…" His voice caught in his dry throat. Reality, harsh and unforgiving, was now rushing uncontrollably towards him like a freight train.

If they were each really honest, they both went into this knowing it wasn't _a thing_. Neither one wanted or expected to all of a sudden turn their friendship into romance. That wasn't the point. But what had occurred between them also wasn't just, _nothing_. There were so many complexities, could they even understand it themselves? Their closeness almost went beyond romance in a strange sort of way. But trying to explain it seemed meaningless.

Tom suspected that she felt the same way, but he wasn't absolutely sure. He didn't want to hurt her in case he was wrong, but it also ate away at his insides to know there was a chance, however slight, that she had different expectations now.

"I don't…I don't think if I have enough to give you what you deserve…" His own words made him recoil as he heard them out loud and he shut his eyes in shame.

Judy reached across to move a strand of Tom's hair away from his sweat tinged forehead. "I didn't ask for anything."

"I know but…" He didn't know how to explain the confusion. He couldn't bring himself to open his eyes.

She let her fingers linger longer than they should have near his hair. She wanted to keep touching his face. She wanted to somehow let him know everything was going to be alright. No matter what happened, it was going to be ok. But she didn't know how. And even if she did, she doubted he'd be able to believer her.

"We don't have to know any answers right now. I don't expect anything different." Her tone was soft and reassuring, yet she intended it to sound much more resolute than it did.

He remained silent with his eyes closed.

"Ok?"

Tom's eyelids fluttered half-open. "Ok." Right before sleep finally pulled him under for the night, he managed a glint of a fragile smile.

For a few brief minutes before she too gave in to weariness, Judy kept her tired gaze on the man asleep beside her.

She had no way of knowing that moment would be the last time she ever saw him alive. She had no way of knowing they would never get to talk through things again. She had no way of knowing that in the morning, Tom would slip out before she awoke and instead of spending the day doing paperwork, he and Penhall would be called over to help Ioki wrap-up a case at McKinley High. She had no way of knowing that the routine drug buy would go horribly wrong and, in the chaos, Hanson would take a bullet to the chest. She had no way of knowing that Doug would desperately perform CPR until the paramedics arrived. She had no way of knowing that her friend would be pronounced dead on arrival at the hospital.

She had no way of knowing how much their lives would change in less than 24 hours.


	5. Chapter 5 - The Phoenix

**Note: I'm jumping around a lot with the timeline. I apologize if it's confusing. I meant for Chapter One to be Time-Zero, and then the flashbacks and flashforwards are based off of that time point. Now I realize I could have organized it differently and probably better, but I won't go back and change things now.**

_**[Flashforward]**_

They'd been chatting over drinks and pool for the past half hour. They just wrapped up their game and were headed back towards the bar.

Booker slapped Harry on the back and gave him a sideways grin. "Don't take this the wrong way," he smiled mischievously, "But you look better than I think I've ever seen you. I really mean that. You look healthy and genuinely happy. You deserve it man."

As Dennis leaned on the bar and motioned to the bartender for two more beers, Harry gave a slightly embarrassed shrug, but then couldn't help from grinning ear to ear. "Thanks. You're right you know," admitted. "I can't really remember a time when I felt this good. I didn't even realize how miserable I was until I look back now and see the difference. I guess when you get in a rut, you get so used to it that it becomes the only normal you know."

It had been three months since Hanson's death, and although the tragedy hadn't been the only impetus for major changes in Harry's life, it was a significant factor. It had been the wake-up call he didn't realize he so urgently needed.

Ever since the drive-by shooting in Crane's well-orchestrated gang war, Harry felt like he'd only been half-living. It took him a long time to get back out in the field, and then once he did, he quickly understood just how much he'd changed physically and mentally. It wasn't just the addiction to prescription pain-killers that had been messing with him, but it was his overall outlook on life. His disillusionment with everything weighed heavy on his mind as he attempted to numb the frustration with medication. But when Penhall finally called him out on the drugs, he couldn't lie to himself anymore. He knew he needed outside help. For a short while he still reported to the Chapel every day, although he and Fuller had talked things over and both agreed that it was best that he take desk duty until he had completely dealt with the addiction.

And he thought it would be so easy. It seemed simple, right? Harry had always prided himself on his high level of self-discipline and methodical ways of tackling problems. And after a month or so of counseling, Harry had been so sure that things were "fine" that he even convinced a reluctant Fuller to allow him back into the field. Fuller had been hesitant, but Harry was so persuasive that Fuller relented.

As fate would have it, his first case back just happened to be his very last.

The morning after Hanson died, Harry handed in his badge. It had been a long-time coming, but witnessing his friend's death was the final deal-breaker.

He walked away from police work, the prescription drugs (which he'd been sneaking on the side here and there, despite the counseling), even his apartment. He needed a clean slate. He started over.

Harry moved across town. He returned to drug counseling, and this time, he didn't give himself the option of relapsing. Since he'd always enjoyed teaching self-defense classes in the past, he decided to take it up as a part-time gig. And then it soon became full-time. He also began volunteering in a youth outreach program that was run in conjunction with some of his old police colleagues. It was a program that provided support to under-served and homeless teens who had addiction problems. Harry found his niche.

And just when those pieces of his life started falling into place, he met a girl.

His new girlfriend accompanied him to the bar to meet Dennis, but knowing that he should catch up with his old friend, she hung out with some girlfriends across the room for the evening. Every now and then she'd glance over at Harry and give him a knowing wink. And Harry would blush and wonder just how he happened to get so lucky. Well, _lucky _wasn't quite the right word. His life had included more than his share of misfortunes. He'd been through many things that would make others crumble. But he found the reserve to keep going and keep working on himself. Perfection didn't exist, but whatever this was, he felt like it was maybe as close as he could get.

And despite his newfound optimism, he couldn't help but feel guilty. Out of the ashes of Tom's death, Harry had been able to regenerate. It didn't seem fair. Nothing ever was.

After grabbing his beer, Booker turned around and casually rested his back and elbows on bar and looked out at the room. He took a swig and noticed Harry's girlfriend flashing yet another playful grin their way. "My, my Harry," he chuckled. "You sly dog. She really is smittin'. You aren't still telling girls you're a Kung-Fu movie star over in Hong Kong?"

Harry nearly choked on his beer. "Hey man, it was only that one time! And _I_ wasn't even the one that came up with that! The girl's _friend_ thought I was the movie star. I just didn't, um, ya know, deny it."

They both laughed again and reminisced some more.

After their current conversation came to a lull however, Booker knew he was the one that had to broach the topic that had been on his mind. He turned towards the bar again and this time, took a seat on a stool. He picked at the soggy corner of the beer bottle label and took a deep breath.

"So Harry…" He started. "I don't mean to bring up bad memories. But I have to ask. I've been thinking about everyone at Jump Street a lot since, ya know." He paused. He could see out of the corner of his eye that Harry quickly downed he remainder of his beer. It could have been a coincidence, but it probably wasn't.

"How is everyone doing? The funeral just didn't seem like the time or place to really talk to anyone."

Harry slid his beer bottle away and felt discomfort bubbling up from the pit of his stomach. His life was a constant see-saw of successes and guilt. "It's been pretty hard on everyone." He managed in a low voice that was barely audible above the noise of the room.

Booker just nodded. Harry's uneasiness was palpable.

"Judy almost tries _too_ hard to act like she's ok. I can tell she's not, but she's dealing with it. She's spent a lot of time with her family lately, so I think that helps some." Harry felt like he was thinking out loud. "But Penhall…" He trailed off as the vision of his friend's distressed face flooded his thoughts. "He's sort of shut down, shut out the world. It seems like he's just throwing himself into taking care of Clavo and using that as an excuse to hide. He won't talk much to any of us. I'm worried about him, but I don't know what else anyone can do."

Dennis nodded again sympathetically. It was true. What do you do for someone who doesn't want help? "I've wanted to see him, stop by or something, but I…I just don't know."

Harry briefly thought about getting one more beer, but then decided against it. "He might appreciate the gesture, even if he doesn't show it. You know how he gets."

A tiny smile tugged at the corner of Booker's mouth. Although they had their differences in the past, there were things they both overlooked in an effort to see the good in each other. Penhall's fierce loyalty, especially to his friends, and without a doubt to his fellow McQuaid brother, was definitely admirable. It was his stand-out trait. Doug Penhall and Tom Hanson, there would never be another team like them. It didn't seem quite fair to the other hard-working officers of the group, but in a way, those two had been the heart of Jump Street. They embodied the spirit of the place. Booker knew, even from afar, that the Chapel had lost a huge part of its soul.

…

_**[Several weeks later]**_

Doug was taking his time packing up the last of his things from his desk. He'd requested a transfer back over to Intelligence a while ago, but the paperwork hadn't been finalized until yesterday.

Earlier in the day, Penhall had quietly said his good-byes and now he was lingering in the empty building. Leaving this place was a lot more loaded now than it had been a couple years ago when he thought he wanted to leave Jump Street the first time. That time around there had been a clear sense of hope and opportunity (and more than a bit of Dorothy's pushing). But this time he felt like a refugee, fleeing his home because of outside forces. He felt a bit guilty for leaving Clavo for the night with a baby-sitter, but he also knew he needed to spend some time doing this. Once he walked out the Chapel doors tonight, he knew he'd never be able to walk back across the threshold again. This was it.

He crossed his arms over his chest and surveyed the room. So much had happened here; there were just too many emotions and ghosts. Echoes from his memories seemed to ricochet off the rafters and sent a chill across the back of his neck.

A sudden loud noise yanked him from reverie. What the hell was that?

The sounds of heavy footsteps were near and for an instant, even though Doug found himself staring into a familiar face, his brain and mouth couldn't coordinate.

"Hey."

"What're you doing here?" was all Doug could sputter in shock.

Booker attempted a gentle chuckle. "_Good to see you too Penhall_." Although Dennis felt that a one-armed guy hug or pat to the shoulder would have been appropriate, he remained a good distance away. "A little birdie told me this was your last day, so I wanted to just come by and say congrats and ya know, just say hi. It's been too long."

Doug swallowed hard. His heart was racing and he didn't know why. Seeing Booker was so startling and so…he couldn't put his finger on it. Why was he suddenly nervous? Although the day of the funeral was such a blur, he remembered Dennis' presence. They hadn't spoken, but Doug was thankful he'd been there to pay his respects.

"How ya been?" It was a stupid rhetorical question.

Doug tried to shrug off his anxiety. He pushed himself off of his perch on the desk and walked towards the center of the room. The creak of the old floorboards sounded so loud when the room wasn't full of the midday commotion. "Been keepin' busy. The kid 'n all that. Still haven't figured out all this parent stuff."

"Yeah, I hear that only takes about 18-25 years," Booker smirked, again, reaching to make some semblance of conversation. He drew his hand back through his dark hair and searched his mind for some way to make this less uncomfortable. His usual air of brash confidence was deflating quickly. He hadn't expected this to be as easy as chatting with Harry, but he hadn't really thought through what he was going to say beyond in the initial hello.

Doug was still reeling from the emotions that were assailing him from every direction. Without realizing it, he started walking in the direction of Hanson's desk. Before turning around, he lifted his head to the ceiling. "Ya know, I never did thank you way I should've, _back then_." He paused. "I'm sorry for that. Thank you, for all you did."

Dennis opened his mouth, intent to blurt out some smart-ass comment, but when he couldn't get the words out, he knew the moment had passed. "Don't thank me. It was all pretty messed up. We all fucked up, and we all redeemed ourselves, so, 'nuff said."

It was classic guy-speak. Their heartfelt apologies and sympathy toward each other were acknowledged, despite the surface almost-too-nonchalant dialogue. A lot was conveyed outside of the words.

Dennis' dark eyes scanned the Chapel and he took in the familiar sight and smell. From time to time he'd think of this place fondly and wonder a laundry list of what-ifs. There were too many what-ifs in his short life already. What was it going to be like in another decade or two? How many what-ifs can one life endure?

The conversation, if one could even call it that, seemed to have served its purpose. There wasn't a whole lot left to say. He tapped his fingers lightly on the nearby wooden tabletop and hitched up his leather jacket. "Well, I gotta get going. I'm glad I caught you. Good to see you man."

He waited another minute to see if Penhall would respond, but he seemed lost in thought. Booker gazed upwards one last time and then started to walk back towards the stairwell.

"Booker?"

Dennis stopped and turned. "What?"

"The baby-sitter is still getting paid for another couple hours. You, uh…Should we call Judy and Harry and go get some beer?" It was the first time since they lost Hanson that Doug had initiated any sort of social outing. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he wasn't sure if he really felt up to it, but it seemed like the thing to do. It seemed like it might not be so bad if they were all together. Well, not entirely _all_.

"Yeah," Booker nodded earnestly. "I'd like that. Maybe we can convince Sal's old lady to let him out of the house too."

Doug allowed himself to inwardly smile. There was no use sitting around the empty building by himself. He trudged back across the room and picked up his last box of desk items. He didn't glance back at the room again. He kept walking.


	6. Chapter 6 - Family Ties

_**[Two weeks after the funeral]**_

Doug let himself into the now sparse apartment with the spare key. Mrs. Hanson wanted to meet him here, but he came early to give himself some time alone.

Technically, Mrs. Hanson had until the last day of the month to remove everything from her son's apartment, which would have been another week, but she just needed some part of it to be done. She didn't have enough energy to be overly sentimental with _all_ of Tom's belongings. There were a small number of the obvious things she would keep, but anything beyond that held no further meaning for her.

Doug looked around the living room. It was strange how spaces tended to appear so much smaller when they were vacant. Why was that? It seemed like it should be the other way around.

Most of the larger furniture was already gone. Only the couch remained, along with assorted boxes and smaller items like lamps that were bunched along the walls. Doug was surprised that standing in this place didn't tear him apart as much as he had imagined it would. It was just a couple of empty rooms now. It didn't seem like the former home of his best friend at all. God, was he losing touch already? No. Definitely not. All of this was just material stuff. And that didn't count.

Penhall had spent the last several weeks in a complete haze. He'd been drinking a lot, and alone. And he knew time was running out before he had to go back to being a responsible adult. Or at least, a shadow of one, for the kid. It was easy to lie to a child. It was even easier to lie to yourself.

Clavo had been staying at Doug's aunt and uncle's house, but he would be coming back in a few days. It had been confusing for him, but he was a resilient kid. He'd already been through a tremendous amount of change, what was a little bit more? Besides Doug and the odd assortment of teachers/baby-sitters that had been hobbled together to fit Doug's strange work schedule, the kid had probably seen Tom more than any other single person since coming to the United States. There were a handful of nights Tom had stayed with him at Doug's place, and one time when they had to crash at Tom's apartment (Doug couldn't remember why now). Whereas Penhall had no other choice than to fit quickly into the father-role (and he proved be quite a natural), Tom never knew if his new Uncle-like status was gaining much ground. Clavo and Tom had a tender, yet tentative rapport. Up until they'd returned from El Salvador with more than they bargained for, Hanson hadn't been around other little kids, so it was all a bit foreign. He felt an innate obligation to his best friend and of course he didn't mind, but both he and Doug were well aware there was an underlying awkwardness (although Clavo would never have noticed). But all of it had been so new; they were all still learning. And after a while, things would fall into place naturally, right?

And Doug tried not to feel too guilty, but who was he kidding? This life was not what any of them would have imagined. But they were doing it. They were making it work. And that's all life really is, isn't it? You just keep making it work, somehow, because there's no other alternative.

The sound of the door opening made Doug jump a little. He didn't realize how much he'd let his mind drift. He turned to see Margaret Hanson standing in the front hallway, her eyes full of sorrow and warmth. Whereas her son was reserved with his feelings, almost _too _skilled at hiding his pain, she wore hers like badge of honor.

She quickly crossed the room and pulled Doug into an ardent hug, whether he was ready for it or not.

When she finally released the embrace, Margaret kept a grasp on Doug's forearms and held him there while she studied his face. She knew her son's friend was hurting just as much as she was, but she also felt like of the two of them, _he _was more breakable. She'd been through this before; she was the veteran. Losing her husband, as catastrophic as it was, had taught her what it took to bear this sort of unbelievable grief. It didn't lessen the heartache, but she knew how to survive and it wouldn't completely consume her. She'd almost made that mistake before, and she swore that whatever else life threw at her, misery would never take her under entirely. The irony of it was that lightening wasn't supposed to strike twice…And yet it did.

Mrs. Hanson cupped Doug's cheek with her hand for a quick moment and smiled weakly. "I've been thinking of you so much."

He appreciated that she didn't ask how he was doing. People kept asking, and it made him want to punch something. _My best friend died in my arms, his blood covered my hands and I beat on his chest even though it didn't do a goddamn thing, so how do you think I'm doing?_ But she knew better. She knew how he was doing, and she was right there with him.

Doug felt a rush of heat to his face and he averted his eyes from his friend's mother. She let go and then went towards the piles of mismatched boxes. Penhall lowered himself onto the couch. He didn't have anything to say. It was comforting to know his companion didn't mind.

After a few minutes of searching, Margaret found what she was looking for and brought a medium sized box over and sat down as well. The top was still closed, and it seemed like she was planning out what to do next.

"I don't know if you want any of these things," she began slowly, "But I put them aside for you. Please take them home. If you decide you'd rather not have some or any of it, that's ok. It won't hurt my feelings and it doesn't matter to anyone except you. But at the very least, take your time and don't make a decision right now."

He nodded and accepted the cardboard cube. He was glad she was letting him take it without having to look through it in her presence. He didn't want the added pressure of her watching him react to the things that were in the box. He had no idea what could be in it, and in the moment, he didn't care. The numbness came in waves.

"Doug," Mrs. Hanson's voice again pulled him from his thoughts. "I have a favor to ask."

"Anything," he managed to breath out.

She looked like she might cry, but she took a deep breath and regained her composure. "I was wondering if…if you and Clavo would like to spend some holidays with me. I don't know what kinds of things you do with your own family, and I would never want to interfere with those gatherings…but if you ever have time to stop by and see this old lady, I'd…I'd like so much to see you both…"

Her eyes were glistening now. She had placed both hands over one of Doug's. It took a great deal of effort for her say those words. Saying them was admitting her boy was gone and would never return. And she understood that Doug was not her son, and that Clavo was not her grandson, and they never would be. But if they could be in her life, even in some small way, it would bring her a tiny bit closer to the life that Tom would never get to live. And even though that wasn't nearly enough, it was all she was possibly going to get.

Doug stared down at their hands and nodded. "That'd be nice," was all he could choke out.

…

It wasn't until past midnight, after several drinks had settled his nerves and quieted the anger for the night, that Doug sat with the box in his lap. He slowly lifted the flaps, one by one, and then placed it next to him so he could better examine the contents.

On top there was a pile of loose photos and some small knick-knacks. Then there was a ridiculously ugly bowling trophy that managed to bring a slight smile to Doug's face. Underneath that were a few cassette tapes, a t-shirt that Mrs. Hanson must have thought held some meaning (even though it didn't), and a couple of books. And then, along the bottom of the container, were the real tear-jerkers. To anyone else, they might've looked like just some random toys and children's books, nothing of any significance. But Doug knew his friend well enough to understand those things were so much more than what they appeared. The toys and books were things that Hanson must've picked up for times when Clavo happened to be at his place. And the fact that he'd gone out of his way to keep some things at-the-ready for the kid, was Tom's way of accepting him into his life. It was a quiet and understated gesture, but not insignificant.

One of the books appeared to be particularly weathered, and it caught Doug's attention. He turned it over in his hands and then opened the front cover. Inside, was an inscription. "Merry Christmas, 1974" was handwritten in the corner with swooping graceful letters, and "Love Mom & Dad" underneath. It was a book from his childhood. And he'd saved it, perhaps for his own kid one day.

Penhall snapped the book shut and shoved the box off the couch in a moment of bitterness. He was tired of being outraged at the universe, but he couldn't help himself. He could hear his father's stern, alcohol fueled voice saying, "_no one ever said life was supposed to be fair_." Yeah. True. But this…

As the box hit the carpet, one more item rolled out from the bottom.

Before he bent over to pick it up off the floor, he just stared at for a long while.

The small package was adorned with race car wrapping paper. A flag with "Happy Birthday" written on it was taped to one corner. Clavo's birthday wasn't for another couple of months. But here was the present, neatly wrapped and waiting.

When Doug finally had it in his hands, images flooded his tired, inebriated mind. He imagined sitting in Mrs. Hanson's dining room, with a cake and candles and presents and balloons. To one side of him, would be his deceased wife's nephew. And to the other side, his dead friend's mother. And it wouldn't be too weird. Because family can be whatever you want it to be.


	7. Chapter 7 - The Long Ache

**Note: I apologize again about the timeline jumping around so much. It's just how everything evolved at different times. This last chapter was actually the first one that I started, but it's been the one that was edited the most.**

* * *

The passing of time is a strange phenomenon. It's all about perception. It doesn't actually get slower or faster. The minutes, months, and years are all the same measurements. But the awareness of the individual is what generates the feeling of pace, rhythm, and stages.

A year came and went. A lot happened, and a lot did not happen. It was all about perception.

* * *

Doug hadn't been back to the cemetery since the funeral. He didn't believe in visiting graves anymore. Maybe it made some people feel better, and helped them feel closer to those they'd lost. But he didn't want to be closer. He had lost too many people. He was already close, and any more closeness would just be more painful, right?

He hadn't seen Judy in almost a month. They were still devoted friends, but since he'd transferred back to Intelligence, they just didn't see each other on a daily basis anymore. And because life always gets busy, there just hadn't been time lately. Or they hadn't made the time. Was that the same thing?

But Doug had specifically asked her if she would meet him at the cemetery that afternoon. He couldn't articulate why, but it just seemed like the only place to meet where they could really talk; really talk about things they'd both avoided ever saying out loud.

Judy walked across the quiet field. She knew exactly where he would be waiting for her. She was slightly late, but she also knew he wouldn't mind. As she approached, she could see him from behind on the nearest bench, staring towards the tree on the hill. Her feet made no sound through the grass, so she purposely crunched on several leaves to let him know she was there.

Her hand rested lightly on his shoulder as she rounded the bench and took a seat beside him.

Her mouth was about to let out a "hi," but when she glanced over at his face, she reached for his hand instead, and squeezed. That was hi enough.

They sat for a few moments without saying anything. It wasn't awkward. Judy had let go of his hand but her shoulder was pressed up against his.

After a while, Doug's voice seemed to materialize out of thin air. His eyes were still focused somewhere off in the distance. Being there in the cemetery, somehow allowed Doug to release things he'd been holding in for a long time. Whenever he and Judy had spent time together during the past year, they didn't bring up their feelings about the loss of their friend. If their conversation happened to accidentally stray into anything surrounding it, their comments were very matter-of-fact, almost completely devoid of emotion. But not now. It was ok right now, in this moment.

"I know they say it's supposed to get easier." His voice was barely above a whisper. "Time heals, all that stuff…but it's not. At least for me. It's still just as hard. And the worst part about it is that everyone just expects things to be fine now. Like some bell went off somewhere to say it's been long enough, so…everything's normal…and if it's not, then what the hell is wrong with _you_?" He let his head fall back as he stared up and beyond. He swallowed hard. "And people like to throw around that word, _closure_, like it's supposed to mean something. But it's just bullshit. It's some made-up idea. Some unattainable thing..." His voice had an edge to it now. He was holding back tears and his hands were trembling ever so slightly.

Judy reached out and touched his arm to try and still his resentment.

"I just…" He shook his head in tired exasperation. "There's so much time left, _without_…" His voice finally broke, and even though she was still staring at his arm and couldn't bring herself to look over at his face again, she knew the tears were there. "There's so much time. It's too much…"

As if he were dreaming, he could visualize a long lonely dusty road out in the desert. It stretched out as far as he could see until it touched the horizon, and then presumably kept going. The imagined heat rising from the pavement made the air waffle. The road was like the decades spread out before him, stacked end upon end. How could he look out at all that, and accept the coming years so readily?

Judy didn't know what to say. There was nothing to say.

When she finally spoke, her voice was full of apprehension. "Doug, have you…"

He knew exactly what she was asking. "Yeah," he cut in quickly and bitterly. "Yeah, I saw the department shrink a few times." He sighed again. "I didn't feel better after talking to him though. It's not for me. I know it helps some people. I just didn't get much out of it."

Judy nodded. It had helped her a bit, but yeah, it wasn't for everyone. Or at least, there was no point in telling him he should still go.

Her eyes looked down to their hands again and she watched as he reached for something in his pocket. He produced what appeared to be a crumpled envelope.

"What's that?" She asked after yet another long silence.

Doug attempted to smooth out the creases along the edges. "A letter," he whispered hoarsely.

She didn't understand. Her brain quickly went through all the people she could imagine that might have written a letter about…

"Who's it from?"

Doug puffed out his cheeks and exhaled loudly, trying to suppress the emotion that was threatening to overcome him again. He waited a moment to regain his composure.

"Tom."

Judy crinkled her nose in confusion. "What? I don't…I don't get it…"

Another loud breath.

"Fuller gave it to me right after…it was a letter that Hanson'd given him a while back. Maybe a year or so before…He had asked Fuller to keep it and give it to me if…" he gestured with his hand, "…all of this ever happened…"

"Oh God," Judy gasped involuntarily. She hadn't meant to say it like that, but it just slipped out. Her hand flew to cover her mouth.

She stared at the paper. Doug turned it over in his hands, and she could see now that his name was written on the other side. But it hadn't been opened. It was still sealed. He had that letter all this time?

Judy was in shock that he could go so long without reading it. If it had been a letter to her, from her deceased best friend, it would have been ripped open the moment it was given to her. She tried not to feel envious that there hadn't been any way there were some last words for her. But this wasn't about her. Keeping the focus solely on Doug was the only way she was managing not to break down. She quickly refocused.

"Why haven't you read it?" She asked, cutting the silence that once again had fallen between them.

Doug fumbled with the paper again. He shrugged.

"Doug," her voice came out angrier than she meant it to be. "Read it. Now. Here. You need this."

He shot up and away from the bench, which just made Judy regret her sudden outburst. But it had to be said.

He stood with his back to her, several paces away.

Judy's momentary anger softened quickly. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean…" she paused. "Doug, what are you afraid of?"

It hadn't ever occurred to him that he was afraid of the letter, but her words struck a chord. _Was_ it fear?

She slowly stood and approached her friend. She reached out and touched his back lightly and then came parallel with his line of sight. "If he wanted you to have that letter, you owe it to him to read it."

Dammit. That wasn't fair, he thought. But then again, nothing ever was.

In the back of his mind, he finally admitted to himself he'd wanted to come to the cemetery in order to read it. He knew he should. He knew he had to. But now that the moment was upon him, he truly _was_ afraid. He was afraid that it would feel like losing his friend all over again, afraid it would add to the already intolerable burden.

Judy waited for him to move or say something, but he seemed to be paralyzed in thought.

"I'm going to go for a walk. Come find me in a while, if you want." She squeezed his arm, trying to compel him to look at her. But he didn't.

So she turned and walked away.

* * *

Judy took her time, deliberately meandering in a non-linear fashion, to the area where she knew some very distant relatives had their final resting places. She hadn't been close to them at all, but it was just an excuse to give Doug some time alone.

As she walked, she thought back over the past year, and then back further, and back some more, and back and across the expanse of time.

She remembered being at the school bus stop in sixth grade. Two older boys were arguing and then began shoving each other. She recalled for the first time, seeing true uncontrolled rage, and how frightening it was up close. And just when she began to panic, a police car came out of nowhere and pulled over to the curb. A male officer was driving, but his partner, a woman, leaned out the passenger window and diffused the situation.

She remembered the day she told her parents she intended to become a police officer. Her father had been furious. He thought his daughter deserved more and that she was settling for a dangerous blue-collar profession that was beneath her. He thought someone had talked her into it, lured her astray from the typical things that her college friends were heading off to do. By the time she'd almost graduated from the Academy and he'd seen how serious she was, he'd gotten over it. For the most part.

She remembered the day she first walked into the Jump Street chapel and got a load of Captain Jenko. He was _so_ outrageous. He was also immensely kind and protective. His death was the first real loss she'd encountered as an adult.

She remembered meeting the boys, Ioki and Penhall, for the first time. Boys, for sure. Being men would come later.

She remembered Tom Hanson being the new kid. He was so uptight and nervous and self-righteous. He changed a lot in that first year at Jump Street, more so than any of them.

She remembered making Detective and the rape. Those two events would always be intertwined; yet another one of those curve balls life throws at you.

She remembered the night before Tom died.

Judy had been lost in thought. She glanced at her watch and realized almost an hour had passed. She hadn't actually made it to her relatives' graves, but instead had wandered aimlessly. Doug hadn't come to look for her.

She audibly sighed. There wasn't anything else she could do today.

She trudged up a slight incline and just then, a distant figure came into view. Doug, head down, was walking in her direction.

He didn't look up until he was only about 15 feet away. Judy could tell that he'd been crying, although at the moment, his eyes were dry. The two friends silently walked towards each other and Judy led the embrace as they met.

When they eventually broke away from each other, Judy put her hand on the side of Doug's face and forced him to look at her.

"Did you read it?"

"Yeah."

"Do you want talk about it?"

"No."

"Did it help…anything?"

"I dunno. Maybe."

"Will you walk with me?"

"Ok."

* * *

Judy could tell Doug still had things he wanted to say, but he wasn't ready yet. And _ready_ could take minutes, months, even years.

As she'd been walking by herself, she had slowly summoned the courage to ask the one question that had haunted her for so long. She never felt like there had ever been a time when it was acceptable to ask, but now, when the table was clear and waiting for all the cards to be placed upon it, why not? The weight of the question pressed down upon her chest now more than ever. The only way to alleviate the discomfort was to finally know.

"I'm not sure why I want to know. But I think about it a lot. More than I should." She began, already feeling her nerves tingling. "So, I guess knowing would at least take away the 'maybes.' Maybe."

She had to pause. Asking the question wasn't going to be nearly as hard as having the answer. And it was already testing her resolve. She gulped down a shard of air.

"What happened in those last few minutes?" She turned to look at Penhall's reaction, but his face was blank.

Judy was fairly certain she knew the answer. She was a cop for Christ's sake. She'd been there plenty of times when it was someone else, but that was just it. They were _other _people; people that were basically acquaintances, suspects, strangers.

Her question rattled him. Doug had forgotten that Judy didn't know. She hadn't been there. And he'd relived it so many times in his head that it was unfathomable that someone so close didn't know, but yeah, how could she? And she had never asked until just now, although, he'd never implied that they _could_ talk about any of this until now either. She'd been waiting all this time, just for him to be ready. Ready wasn't the right word. Strong enough? That wasn't right either.

If someone else were asking, if it were Mrs. Hanson, he'd start lying right about now. He'd make up details that glossed over the bad, and he'd twist the vagueness until it was almost comforting. But this wasn't Mrs. Hanson. Judy was asking in earnest, and if she really wanted to know, then she deserved the truth.

He steeled himself as he allowed the all-too vivid memory to wash over him again. The images that he'd tried to purge from his memory so many times were still so damn close to the surface. They were always right there, waiting to ambush him. He didn't know where to start, but his gravelly voice began even before his brain decided what it was going to reveal and not reveal.

"Someone had already called for back-up. We just had to figure out where everyone scattered to. The kids were so flighty, we shoulda seen that coming…" He had to pause for air. It hurt to breathe.

"Harry said the last time he saw Hanson was over near the side of the maintenance shed during the last volley of shots. As soon as it was clear, I ran over there, along the side of the building."

Doug was fidgeting now.

"I came around the corner…" The words were lodged in his throat and he literally felt like he could choke. "I…I could see blood on the concrete. It was dark, but I could tell that's what it was. I could tell where he'd fallen and the way the marks were on the ground, he dragged himself a ways…"

Judy shut her eyes and her stomach vaulted. This is what she wanted, she reminded herself. She wanted the whole truth, no matter how hard it was to hear.

"I found him next to the generator."

It wasn't like in the movies at all. In the movies, there is always enough time for the revelation of a secret, or a declaration of love, or a heartfelt good-bye. In the movies, the dying person can still speak, and the clarity of the moment is so profound. In the movies, you aren't attacked with all the visceral stimuli: the smell of the blood, the sound of the sirens, the taste of dread, the panic screaming through your veins, the warmth of life, the coldness of death.

Reality is so much messier and nastier. Reality doesn't play by those rules. Real death is unflinching and graphic. Real death is so quick.

"He…He didn't even look like himself. His face was different. He couldn't talk and his eyes were lost somewhere else, he couldn't focus." Doug's voice cracked. "I don't even know if he knew I was there or if he heard anything I said. I'd like to believe he did, but I really have no idea…I wish I could be sure he knew he wasn't alone…"

Recalling all the little details made his heart race and his head pound.

"He was still conscious for a minute or two. Or, I think it was minutes, I'm not sure. And then…his eyes closed. And I couldn't find a pulse…" He quickly wiped at this face with the back of his hand. "They told me later that I'd been doing CPR, but honestly, I don't remember that part. I remember my arms hurt afterwards. They ached for days. But I can't remember. I remember all the rest, but not that."

The words descended into Judy's skin, thick and viscous. Now she knew. Now, whenever she thought about it, there would be images she couldn't remove. And even though the images were unpleasant, in a way, it was comforting to know they were so much closer to the truth. In her mind, she'd made up things that weren't nearly as bad, but she'd also made up scenarios that were much worse. The truth, however objectionable, was far better than the unknown.

She didn't know when she had started to cry, but her face was wet now. For the first time in months, she was shedding tears. And once she realized it, the levee broke and she was sobbing uncontrollably. It felt good and bad at the same time. In a way, all of this was a relief.

Judy felt Doug's warm arms envelop her as she shook with emotion. She hadn't ever cried this freely in front of him for fear it would upset him even more. She had held back. She had hidden her own distress to allow room for his. That sacrifice had been corrosive. But that was gone now. It was ok for her to be upset too.

Time _without_, indeed. There would be a lot of that. But there was also time, just plain time. They could do whatever they wanted with it. They could make it count. Maybe the point wasn't to accept the bad and move on. There had been too much focus on acceptance. Acceptance implied a willingness, an approval, a stamp of certification. Maybe the point was just to learn to live with the grief, somehow. The pain would never really leave. It was going to ebb and flow, surge and retreat, in a continuous flow out across that empty desert. Figuring out how to get through the days, how to make a difference, how to still find enjoyment and purpose despite the darkness, maybe that's all there would ever be. That was the challenge of life itself. Just keep going. Rise up, when you can.


End file.
